“He’s a not a bad man, you know,” Jessie said before they could let themselves out. “He’s actually a good guy.”
These loaded words drew Felicia back toward Jessie. “He’s not someone you can trust, Jessie. I’m not saying he’s the same person as Mike Sullivan, but-”
“Josh is nothing like Mike.” Jessie’s voice attained a certain ferocity. “You shouldn’t even put them in the same sentence.”
Felicia’s eyes flashed with anger but only for a second. When she spoke, her voice was measured. “Yes, they’re different. But the result can be the same. And I don’t think Josh can even control or help it. He’s killed and-”
Jessie cut off Felicia again. “He was right to kill Mike. Mike deserved to die for what he did to me. I’m glad he’s dead.”
Felicia ceased her part in the debate over Josh’s goodness, perhaps shocked by Jessie’s definitive judgment of her ex. Of course, Felicia had made similar statements about Mike Sullivan. For some reason, Jessie’s words seemed to unnerve the reporter.
John was about to say that Mike Sullivan deserved to be in jail. That it wasn’t up for anyone to decide who should live or die and making that determination put people on a slippery slope. But in the end, John held his tongue and allowed Jessie to have her feelings.
Jessie’s eyes were now ablaze and her facial features had turned to granite. Clearly, she was not interested in any kind of ethical debate.
“You’re not the first ones who’ve asked me about Josh. Some other guys came by and wanted to know where he was, too,” she said.
“Who? What did they look like?” John asked.
“There were two guys in suits. They seemed like government agents,” Jessie said.
“Did they identify who they were with?” John asked.
“No. They never said.”
Felicia exchanged looks with John. She was thinking the same thing he was.
“If they ever come back, Jessie, let me know,” John said.
“They’re never going to stop coming after him, are they?” Jessie asked as she took a peek out the window. She faced John and Felicia again. “And what do you expect him to do? How is he supposed to live a normal life like this?”
John thought about assuring Jessie that he’d look out for Josh, but given the circumstances, couldn’t make such a promise, though he did sympathize with Josh’s plight. After once again vowing to do whatever else he could to help the young woman, John and Felicia took their leave of her.
“If he came back to her, do you think she’d actually call us?” John asked Felicia as they walked to their cars.
“I think it’s far more likely that she runs off with him,” Felicia said, frowning. “The night you were shot, he wanted her to come with him. She stood up to him back then, but now she’s vulnerable. He offers her a different life and I think that will be appealing to her.”
John nodded. With an unfulfilling retail job, unsupportive parents, and no real direction in life, Jessie might be easily persuaded to run off with Josh. He worried for the battered young woman though didn’t know how to help her.
26
Josh Williams grew up not far from Jessie Walters, a scant forty-five minutes away across the Jersey-Pennsylvania border. Felicia and John had already interviewed Williams’ parents—a decidedly rural couple—when they first investigated who he was and what he was capable of. Mrs. Williams had been defensive then, worried about disclosing too much information about her unique son. Harrison doubted the last month had changed her posture much, at least not for the better. Depending on what her son had told her—if he had made contact since the events in Woodside went down—she would be even more tight-lipped now. But it was still worth the trip to talk to her; Mrs. Williams didn’t strike Harrison as a proficient liar.
Felicia and John parked their cars in a straight line in the narrow, shaded driveway that led to the tiny ranch house where the Williams lived. Not much had changed. The same pile of scrap metal that Williams’ father had started assembling at the end of the driveway was still there, though it seemed a little taller than before. Felicia and Harrison followed the paver-stone path to the front door, past the knick-knacks and gnomes that lay scattered across the now barren garden.
Mrs. Williams didn’t look pleased to see them. The hefty woman’s customary smile to visitors faded once she recognized who they were.
“What do you want?” she asked, keeping the storm door closed, which muffled her voice.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Williams. We had some more questions about your son,” Harrison said.
“I have nothing more to say to you people.” She started to close the door.
“Wait! We think Josh is in trouble,” Harrison said. This claim was enough to pause Mrs. Williams’ motion, though she still didn’t open the door.
“Is he in trouble because of you people?” Mrs. Williams asked.
Harrison’s initial reaction was to shake off that question, but when he actually considered it, he felt uncomfortable. Maybe even a little guilty.
“Ma’am, your son has become a danger to himself and others. And there are powerful people who’d like to capture him. We need to know if he’s made contact with you so we can find him first.”
Mrs. Williams stood motionless, staring down Harrison. “And what will you do to him if you find him first? Will you put him in jail? Gun him down? I don’t think you can keep him safe. Josh can take of himself. I have to believe that.”
“But I don’t think he can control his powers, ma’am. Innocent people might get hurt.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Josh never has and never will hurt anyone who’s innocent. If he does something to them, then they must have had it coming.”
With that, she slammed the door shut.
“Well, I guess that’s the end of that,” John said, taking a step backward. Felicia remained in her previous position, even when John turned to leave. “You okay?” he asked when he realized she hadn’t moved to follow him.
The words jostled her out of whatever temporary paralysis gripped her and she began moving toward her car. As they returned the way that they came, an older man wearing a tank top, despite the frigid air, stood at the end of the path smoking a cigarette. Mr. Williams, who was not Josh’s biological father and was a one time target of Josh’s powers, offered a much better prospect for information. The man peered around the corner, perhaps trying to ascertain if his wife was watching them from the front door. Once he verified the coast was clear, he spoke.
“You guys looking for Josh?”
“Has he been by here?” John asked.
“Little more than a week ago. He seemed a little rattled.”
“Did he say where he was now?”
“Nah, he didn’t.” Mr. Williams took another drag on his cigarette. “He doesn’t really say much to me.”
“Does your wife have a cell phone number for him?”
“Maybe. I mean you’d assume she would. But I don’t think she ever calls him. And she gets worried if she hasn’t heard from him in awhile; even then, she won’t call him. So maybe she doesn’t.”
“Do you think you could check?” John asked, fully aware he was asking Mr. Williams to betray his wife’s trust. “I think Josh is losing control over his powers. He’s really dangerous right now.”
The man looked at Harrison for a moment, then stared off into the cluster of pine trees that shaded the house. “I can check.”
“Thank you. Has anyone else been to talk to you guys about Josh? People who weren’t police?”
“I don’t recall anyone stopping by, besides you of course.”
Harrison nodded. “If Josh comes by again or anyone else comes by asking about him, would you give me a call?” Harrison handed him his card. The man shoved the card into the pocket of his stained and tattered sweatpants and continued smoking as John and Felicia headed toward their cars.
“Seems like we just interviewed the only two people in the Josh Williams’ fan club
,” John said, standing behind Felicia as she opened the door to her burgundy Camry. Once she opened it, she glanced back at the tiny, red house.
“I’m surprised Stevenson Industries hasn’t been looking for Josh here. They must know where he grew up,” she said.
“They probably knew she’d never tell them anything. She’d never believe they wanted to help Josh.” John tapped his fingers against the roof of the car. “Do you think it’s possible that your uncle really could help Josh?”
“If my uncle was on his own? Sure, I think he’d do what he could to help Josh—if that’s even possible. But my uncle as part of the Stevenson Industries industrial complex? No. Too many mixed motives, too many other things on the line. I used to think that they were mainly just about the science, research, and discovery. Now, I don’t even know. But I should have asked those questions a long time ago.”
“Don’t beat yourself up over this. You knew and trusted your uncle. You can’t always know what people will do.”
Felicia glared at him. “John, don’t. We’ve been through this before. You try to talk me out of my guilt, tell me that it’s not my fault, whatever. But Mrs. Williams was right. Josh has never hurt anyone who was innocent before. Whatever I did or didn’t deserve, I’m definitely not innocent. This was all some kind of game to me: finding Dan’s killer, exposing Josh Williams’ powers, you…” She trailed off and looked away from John.
Harrison reached out and grabbed Felicia’s arm before she could board her car. “Felicia, I’m not telling you how to feel. But I contributed to this situation, too. I went along with the plan to deliver Josh Williams to Stevenson Industries. So you’re not alone in your guilt. And we both need to acknowledge that there are situations here outside of our control.”
John released his grip on her arm. Felicia, now unencumbered, climbed into her car and started the ignition. Without another word, she drove off. John sighed before leaving himself. For all the time he spent believing that he was the good guy, Stevenson Industries was the bad guy, and that he needed to find Josh Williams first, he struggled with the unsettling thought he was viewing the situation far too simplistically.
27
Matt Harrison paced back and forth through the Poughkeepsie Train Station. Nestled along the Hudson River, the station retained an old-fashioned feel that was both picturesque and nostalgic. In fact, its brick facade and wooden benches served as a popular backdrop for wedding photos—a fact Matt only knew because one of his clients had such a picture. He supposed these photos were meant to be a metaphor of sorts, symbolic of beginning a new journey in life. Only in the case of his client, the marriage had gone off the rails when the wife cheated on the husband. To the south of the station lay the Mid-Hudson bridge, illuminated by a number of street lights as it crossed the iconic river.
Matt checked his watch. They had less than ten minutes before their train left. Right as Matt looked up, he saw Grace approaching from the main entrance. She wore a black puffer jacket and blue jeans. She looked neither unhappy nor excited to see him.
“Alright, you ready to go?” Matt asked, surprised by how chipper his voice was.
“I just need to buy a ticket,” she said, scanning the lobby for the nearest ticket machine.
“Already got you one,” Matt said, holding up the ticket.
“You didn’t have to.”
“Yeah, I know. But I did.”
She stared at him as if he had done something offensive.
“Don’t worry about it. I hate missing trains and it seemed like you were running a bit late. It’s one of the few things I’m anal about. If it makes you feel better, you can pay me back later. Now let’s go.”
The two crossed the walkway that led over the northbound tracks. Within a few minutes, they had boarded the sparsely populated off-peak southbound train. Poughkeepsie was the first stop in its branch of the Metro-North line, which meant people who got on there could usually pick their favorite seats without competition.
“Window or aisle?” Matt asked, taking for granted they would occupy the same row, even though the few riders on the train gave them the leeway to sit further apart.
“Aisle,” Grace replied after a moment of silent contemplation.
“Good choice,” Matt said, sliding down the row of seats until his hips brushed up against the wall. Grace gave him an uncertain look as she sat down next to him. “This way, if I tried anything funny you could get up right away. If you sat in the window seat, you’d be stuck.”
She gazed at him uncertainly.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to do anything funny. Anyway, I’ll shut up now.”
Shortly after sitting, the train lurched into motion. Grace was quiet as they cleared the Mid-Hudson bridge. Matt wondered if they would talk and what they would talk about if they did. Sure, they could have discussed Grace’s dreams, but there didn’t seem to be much more to say about those for the moment. But Matt didn’t have to worry about conversation because something surprising happened: Grace fell asleep. Within minutes of moving beyond the bridge, she closed her eyes and her head began drooping to the side. Soon, her auburn hair was draped over his arm and the full weight of her head rested against his shoulder. Matt smiled; there were worse ways to spend his evening.
Grace barely even stirred until the train went underground on its last leg to Grand Central. Once the train moved into the lit outer portion of New York City’s principal mass transportation hub, Grace lifted her head. She surveyed her surroundings; the tell-tale grogginess that accompanied waking up from short naps clouded her vision, but she seemed shocked at the proximity of their faces.
“Where are we?” she asked, rubbing her eyes.
“Grand Central.”
“I was asleep?”
“The whole way.”
Grace looked at him as if it was all some kind of elaborate ruse.
“Did you dream?” Matt asked.
“No. I just sleep.”
“You feel better?”
“A little.”
Grace yawned and arched her back, which produced a few cracking noises. As she acclimated to consciousness again, the train slowed to a halt. Grace stole a glance at her phone as she gathered her purse. People were beginning to stand up and move toward the doors.
“I’m sorry for crowding your space,” she said.
“It was fine. I know how hard it’s been for you to sleep, lately. Maybe the motion of the train was good for you. You should take the train every night. Of course, if you fell asleep on the train, then you’d be vulnerable to all kinds of freaks and weirdos.”
Grace scooted to the edge of the seat and pushed herself up. The doors of the train opened, and passengers streamed out. Matt and Grace joined them, stepping across the gap to the dingy and familiar cement of a Grand Central platform.
The city brought out aspects of Grace that Matt hadn’t noticed. She had always seemed low-key, but it wasn’t until they plunged into the frenetic chaos of the city that he realized how low her energy level really was. As currents of people cascaded along either side of her, Grace plodded along as though a stiff headwind pushed back against her. Matt lessened his gait to keep pace with her. Crossing over to the east side of the city took forever. Despite her brief respite on the train, Grace’s strength seemed to fade with every block they crossed.
Finally, after passing an astounding number of Starbucks and pizzerias, the two made it into a small, independent coffee shop that advertised sustainable and locally sourced coffee beans. Matt surveyed the darkened shop, finally spotting the man he had seen in the picture, sitting in the corner sans the ugly dog. Grace, whose view was obstructed by Matt, still hadn’t located him yet.
“Over there,” Matt said, gesturing toward the corner.
Richard Anderson sat at a small table by himself. For some reason, the man did not fit into any of Matt’s preconceived categories of people who lived in the city. He was not a young hipster or an urbane socialite. Dressed in a plaid flann
el button down shirt tucked neatly into his khaki pants, he seemed more like the sort of man Matt would expect to show up for the early bird special at some quaint upstate eatery. Anderson didn’t seem to notice them approach; he was too busy inspecting his coffee after every sip.
“Richard Anderson?” Grace asked softly as they drew nearer. He didn’t hear. She forced herself to be a little louder. “Richard Anderson?”
The man looked up from his coffee with a neutral expression. “Grace Murphy?” he asked, with a far more gravelly voice than Matt expected from the man’s slim and short frame.
“Yes, hi.” Grace sat down across from Anderson before realizing she needed to introduce Matt. “This is Matt Harrison. He’s...helping me.”
Richard Anderson nodded at Matt, who produced a modest smile and sat down on Grace’s left.
“You should try the coffee. It is excellent. And I am very particular about my coffee,” Anderson said. Grace didn’t move or respond to Anderson’s suggestion in any way. She had questions to ask, but now that she sat in front of him, the words proved elusive.
“What would you like to know?” Anderson asked. “You’ve come all this way. You must have questions.”
With Grace still frozen, Matt got the conversation started. “How long have you had the dreams?”
“Well, I don’t have them anymore. When you get right down to it, I only had the dreams for a month. They are a small footnote in the history of my life.”
Grace finally found her voice. “When did you realize what the dreams really were?”
Anderson set his coffee mug down. “You mean, when did I realize the people in my dreams were dying? Oh, it wasn’t until the second person I dreamed about showed up in a newspaper article. It was a little harder to track down the information back then. Nothing was online, of course. I still managed to go back through some week-old newspaper and found the first person. The rest I never verified. Just assumed they met similar fates.”
Death Prophets (Strange Gravities Book 3) Page 12
